


Lovemark 2.0

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Friends to Lovers, Hickies, Hormones, M/M, POV Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Pre-Canon, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 21:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17332607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: “You’re gonna use a vacuum cleaner to simulate a hickey?”“No. My hickey will be real. That’s where you come in.”Scott is cajoled into giving Stiles a hickey to attempt to make Lydia jealous, but it doesn't go exactly as planned.





	Lovemark 2.0

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this as a not!fic last year, but because I'd never truly written a practice kissing story before, I decided to expand it. Truthfully, this is not exactly a practice kissing story, but it's in the same vein.

This is the thing they don’t teach you at school – oh, they tell you about how there are hormones coursing through your body and that you’re undergoing lots of _changes_ and you might find some new _hair down there_ \-- but they don’t tell you that it’s only _after_ the rapid and severe mood-swings that you realize it’s your hormones wreaking havoc, and they don’t tell you how you can learn to anticipate when that’s going to happen, and worst of all, they don’t tell you how you can deal with it while it’s happening. 

Even Scott, who has been called some variation of ‘mild-mannered’ by every adult who knows him occasionally has these stabs of rage and waves of despair and pulses of… pressure that he doesn’t know how to control. He misses when he wasn’t aware of his body in this way. He’s always been aware of his breathing, of his lungs, of needing to be careful when running or exercising, but he’s never had to worry much about phantom twitches at inopportune moments, or how his blood feels like it’s going syrupy slow when someone – Stiles, it’s usually Stiles -- starts talking about something that claws at his id. 

Scott closes his locker with a firm press and concentrates on the weight of books in his backpack, on memorizing every step on the route to chemistry. At lunch today, Stiles was telling Scott all about this video he saw online of some kind of sex toy that stimulates the prostate so much it makes you come so hard you practically shake apart, and now Scott can’t stop thinking about that, or imagining Stiles has one, and all Scott really wants to do is be able to concentrate on the difference between physical and chemical changes within molecular structures, not his own body. He guesses he only has himself to blame. He did ask Stiles if he’d watched anything good recently. Then again, the last time he’d asked that question, Stiles had suggested a Disney channel cartoon, so how was he to know what to expect?

This year, chemistry is one of three subjects Scott and Stiles don’t share, so Scott slides into the seat next to Erica like usual and prepares his notebook like usual, and hunkers down in his seat like usual, hoping against hope he doesn’t get called on. Not because he doesn’t know the content. He does. But because he hates how his voice is still going through a transition phase and how his palms get sweaty and how his chest goes almost asthma tight. He shoots Erica a quick, polite smile from under his bangs and listens as Mr. Harris begins the lesson. 

He wishes he could concentrate, but Mr. Harris has this quality to his voice that means it’s easy to drift off. He thinks the best way to describe it would be droning. Mr. Harris is droning on and on about topics Scott actually usually finds interesting from the readings in his text book, and so Scott’s mind keeps wandering back to the concept of lying next to Stiles on his twin bed, pressed together to watch Stiles’ laptop and that video he mentioned earlier. Scott’s skin goes hot at the thought of it. Maybe Stiles would have taken off his plaid shirt and only be wearing a t-shirt and some shorts. Maybe Scott would be able to feel the fine hairs on their arms brushing as they breathe. Maybe Stiles would go petal-pink like he does and smack his lips together and wriggle his fingers like he’s visualizing himself in that guy’s place. 

Scott clenches his jaw and wills his blood vessels to get a hold on themselves and stop directing blood away from his brain. He has another two periods after this and he really needs to focus. He’s been getting solid B+s, As and A+s and he’s not going to let these goddamn _hormones_ screw with that. He reaches into his backpack for his bottle of water and takes a long, measured swig. He can get through this. Mr. Harris asks the class a question and then doesn’t wait for hands to go up, instead staring pointedly at Scott. Scott thinks perhaps he did something extremely shitty in a previous life, or he was cursed at birth by an evil faerie. Probably, Mr. Harris is evil. Scott doesn’t like to think ill of other people, but Mr. Harris is one of the nastiest people he’s met, so… evil is a viable option. 

“Sorry, could you repeat the question?” Scott asks. 

“Left your brain at home today, Mr. McCall?” Mr. Harris asks. 

Scott looks at him carefully. “No, just my ears,” he says, not adding the bite to it he knows others would. “If you ask again, I’ll do my best to answer.” He sounds calm, which is not how he feels. 

Judging by the tic in his jaw, Mr. Harris hates that and he moves on to harass someone else. 

“That was cool,” Erica says quietly outside the door when they begin the trek to their next period. “I like how you stood up to him.”

“Thanks,” Scott replies. He doesn’t know what else to say. He wants to continue the conversation but he doesn’t know much about Erica, who only says thirteen or so words on a good day. “Have fun in math.”

“I’ve got free study,” she says, hiking a shoulder. She smiles at him, then turns in the opposite direction and walks away. 

Luckily, Scott’s next class is involving and he manages to get all thoughts of Stiles and that video and how his body’s responding to those two things pushed to the back of his mind. Unfortunately his last lesson of the day is another he shares with Stiles, who pokes Scott’s side and gives him a cheeky smile as hello. Stiles is a distraction most of the time. He likes to talk not-quite-sotto-voce to Scott while teachers are teaching, or has this _thing_ where he wraps his lips around the ends of pens, highlights and pencils, and he taps his foot or his fingers against chair and desk legs. He’s a whirlwind of energy and excitement. But somehow, someway, Stiles is extra distracting today. 

*

“So, you wanna be study buddies for the test next week?” Stiles asks as they walk out into the sunshine. 

They always study for tests together, but it’s nice that Stiles still asks. 

“I have work, but it’s the short shift, so I’m free after 6:30,” Scott replies. 

Just as he does so, Lydia Martin floats by like a majestic and rare butterfly. Scott watches as Stiles’ eyes glaze over and he goldfishes at Lydia. Scott has to admit, Lydia’s pretty. She always has been. He remembers in elementary school when she actually used to talk to them and how she wasn’t exactly nice but she was always kind. But Scott’s kind of sick of hearing about how beautiful she is, if he’s honest with himself, and maybe sometimes he’s a little resentful that whenever she’s near she gets all of Stiles’ undivided attention. He’s totally aware that he’s normally the person in that position so he shouldn’t be greedy, but he can’t help it. 

“Lydia!” Stiles calls.

Oh God. No. Scott is never here for those moments when Stiles attempts interaction with Lydia. It hasn’t worked since the beginning of middle school and Scott seriously doesn’t get why Stiles hasn’t gotten the picture. 

“I liked how you solved that equation,” Stiles keeps yelling. “I think even Mrs. Bosely was shaken. Your method was super efficient. Much better than the one in the textbook. Beautiful in its simplicity.”

Lydia doesn’t turn around, but Scott notices her shoulders tighten and she walks a little quicker. Scott’s never truly understood it. Sure, Stiles is a lot, but he’s not creepy like Greenberg can be, and he isn’t a douche like Jackson. Stiles doesn’t only talk about Lydia’s looks, he also waxes lyrical on her intelligence, independence and confidence, so his intentions seem to be about as pure as they can be for a teenager. 

“She didn’t hear me,” Stiles sighs, swiveling back to Scott. It’s definitely one of those wilful ignorance moments, wherein they both know the truth but neither will voice it because that’d be too mean. “Wanna put your bike in the back of the Jeep? I can drive you to work.”

“I like the ride,” Scott says. “But I’ll see you tonight?”

If Stiles is disappointed, he does a good job of bottling that up. He pats Scott’s shoulder. “Okay, sure, seeya.”

Scott spends the entire bike ride wondering if they’re really going to study.

*

Stiles is perfectly on time, lets himself in via his key and meets Scott in the kitchen. He gazes at Scott as he finishes making dinner, pours Scott a water and himself a milk. Scott watches as he gulps it down, swipes the back of his hand against his mouth. 

“What?” Stiles asks. 

“Make yourself at home,” Scott says with a laugh. He puts their plates on the kitchen table and gestures to a seat.

“This is my second home, Scotty, just like mine is yours,” Stiles says. “Or have I been wrong more than half my life?”

“No, you’re right, it’s just… amazing, seeing you own every space you enter. I don’t usually feel that way.”

“I don’t notice,” Stiles says, shrugging. Then he quirks an eyebrow. “And you shouldn’t either.” He takes a mouthful of pasta, moans around it. Scott wriggles in his seat at the sound, because it’s _obscene_. “This is really good. Next time I’ve gotta get you to cook extra so I can take it to my first home and devour it like a midnight feast gremlin.”

“I already did. There are two tupperwares in the fridge and one has your name on it.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re made of happiness, sunshine and all good things?”

“I think you did the last time I bought you cinnabon?”

“God, Scott, if there was a prize for best friend in the entire world I’d enter your name about a thousand times.”

“I want you to remember this while you’re doing the dishes.”

They eat and chat. Stiles relays how he was doing in World of Warcraft, Scott tells him all about their latest, cutest puppy addition. Stiles does, indeed, do the dishes as Scott clears the kitchen table and sets up their books and some extra snacks for the inevitable sugar slump they’ll enter in an hour’s time. And then they spend some time studying, comparing notes, quizzing each other. Scott always enjoys these moments, when they’re learning in a relaxed environment. He doesn’t always cope well under stress and Stiles is also always calmer like this. Tamed. 

“So I’ve been thinking about Lydia,” Stiles says in a lull.

“Really? I’m shocked.”

“I’m thinking I need to draw her attention somehow, make her jealous.”

“Not trying to be mean, but doesn’t she have to acknowledge your existence for her to be jealous? Also do you want her jealous of or for you?”

“For me, of course. “

“So, what? You’re gonna get a girlfriend for the express purpose of making Lydia jealous? That wouldn’t be very kind.”

“Not a whole girlfriend, no. Not a real one.”

Scott gazes at Stiles, notes the bead of sweat on his brow, the flush of his cheeks. He’s almost vibrating in space. This is going to go one of two ways. Stiles will suggest something outrageous and then laugh uproariously at Scott’s reaction because he’s clowning around and sometimes he seems to get the hugest kick out of Scott having to be the reasonable one, or Stiles will suggest something outrageous and then dig his heels in because he is 100% serious and determined. The problem is that in both situations, Scott will invariably go along with Stiles’ harebrained schemes. Scott has a fondness for Stiles that goes beyond him being one of only two kids who’d talk to him in kindergarten, beyond the knowledge that Stiles knows what it’s like to only have one parent, beyond him _seeing_ Scott in a way no one else does. And that fondness frequently gets him into trouble. 

“What’s your plan?” Scott asks, wary.

“Remember Jennie Meyers last month? How she caused a gigantic brouhaha because she had a hickey the size of a donut on her neck?” 

“Ye-eees,” Scott says, slowly. 

“That’s what I’m gonna do!” Stiles says, rocking back in his chair, flinging his arms out like he’s Spider-Man swinging through a city. 

“You’re gonna use a vacuum cleaner to simulate a hickey and then cry in the middle of the cafeteria as your ex tells the whole school it’s all fake?”

“No. My hickey will be real. That’s where you come in.”

There are phrases that describe how Scott feels at this statement – pants-shittingly terrified, the other side of exasperated, instantly aroused -- but Scott can’t think of any of them at this moment in time. The thing about the constant deluge of hormones that rush through his system in any given minute is that he feels like he can never trust his reactions. Part of him is furious that Stiles is so much as uttering this, making light of these feelings Stiles has no way of knowing about. Part of him is overjoyed that this is something Stiles trusts him with, something he’s not afraid of doing because he knows Scott won’t take it the wrong way. The better part of him is _curious_. What would it be like to see Stiles walking around with a mark that he made, walking around with a visible reminder of _his_ mark on him, even if he was pretending it was from someone else. What would it be like to have Stiles under his hands, his lips, his tongue, and to suck at his pale, smooth skin? 

“Stiles, come on, it didn’t end well for Jennie, what makes you think it would end well for you?”

“I’ve never dated an asshole like Brock and I’m outsourcing to a real life person rather than technology,” Stiles says again, blinking rapidly, like he does every time Scott issues some form of resistance to his terrible fucking ideas. 

At this point, Scott could say, “I’m not comfortable with this,” and he’s fairly sure Stiles would cajole him twice more before letting the matter drop. The problem with that is it would cut down any possibilities of this ever happening in the future. Another problem is that it would be a bare-faced lie and Stiles can always tell when he’s lying. 

“Well, I’m not doing it down here. Gather your stuff,” Scott says, stacking his text books and beginning the trek to his bedroom. He glances back when Stiles stands still, open-mouthed.

“Wait, what? For real?” Stiles says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I thought this would take way more convincing. I had whole verbal essays about healthy teenaged experimentation and the curse of heteronormativity at the tip of my tongue. If I could tell you were really noping out of it, I was gonna leave you alone, but, you’re ready? Just like that?”

“I like learning things too,” Scott says, shrugging a shoulder. 

He’s amused he knew Stiles’ every ploy, and pleased he’s one-upped him. He’s also tempted to roll his eyes at Stiles’ mention of ‘heteronormativity’, like Stiles has any idea about how Scott feels when it comes to attraction to girls and boys and that one kid Casey who identifies as non-binary. Scott has never thought to mention anything of that sort to Stiles, because sometimes Stiles overshares, like about that porn video at lunch, and he assumes everyone else would too, and Scott doesn’t think he could handle the barrage of questions. Especially when half the time his answer would be, ‘I don’t know.’

Stiles hops, skips and jumps to meet him at the doorway, a pink blush already settling on his cheeks. He _winks_ at Scott as they walk up the stairs, and honestly, Scott has no clue why he does this to himself. Stiles is a menace and he knows this. 

When they’re in his room, Scott closes the door, even though his mom’s not due back for another three hours. He puts his books away in his backpack and rubs his hands down his sweats, and watches as Stiles unbuttons his plaid shirt and places it on the back of Scott’s computer chair. This shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, it’s just a friendly favor, and it’s only skin meeting skin, and it’s not like they’re kissing or anything. But Scott’s heart is thumping incredibly loudly in his ears and his limbs feel too long for his body and he has the beginnings of a pressure head-ache behind his left eye. 

Stiles sits, nay, sprawls on Scott’s bed. He’s been losing a lot of his puppy fat in the past year and it shows. He’s started to look more gangly, more mature, more like a man, and Scott’s muscles tighten in response to that observation. 

Stiles pulls down the collar of his t-shirt, reveals his long, pale neck. “Suck it, Scotty. Suck it good.”

Stiles immediately goes brighter pink at having said that and Scott can feel the heat under his skin, knows he’s also blushing, though his shows differently from Stiles and Stiles is one of the few people who can tell. Scott settles next to him, places one hand on Stiles’ knee because it needs to rest somewhere, and the other on his shoulder. He bends down and presses his lips against the juncture between Stiles’ neck and shoulder. There’s an automatic whimper. Scott gives an experimental lick before he sucks and Stiles tastes salty and warm, like fresh bread. Scott files this information away into the mental bank he uses when he has some alone time, along with his visualizations from earlier, and that time he saw Stiles in the gym showers. Stiles inhales a deep, shaky breath and his leg twitches as Scott changes position and anchors himself closer, sliding his hand up Stiles’ thigh. He can feel the muscles in Stiles’ legs clenching and unclenching, out of time with his own. 

“Doing good, I think,” Stiles say, voice high-pitched in a way it hasn’t been for at least a year. “Feels pretty hoovery, vacummy, suctiony.”

Scott doesn’t reply, too focused on continuing his perfect seal, on testing how to move his tongue to increase efficiency. But he thinks about how Stiles doesn’t want this to be like a vacuum cleaner, he wants it to be like a person, so he moves his mouth a quarter inch to the left and begins to suck again. His pants are tight as he shifts position, his palms are lakes of damp. He feels like he’s throbbing all over; his lips, his eyes, his gut. His lungs are protesting like they do before a big asthma attack, and he can feel his chest moving erratically. 

When he pulls away, he only moves a foot and surveys the damage. It’s beautiful, like a sunrise painted in oil paints and unconventional colors. There are a couple of pink rings filled with small blooms of red, the promise of purple – they almost match the color on Stiles’ cheeks. It’s a lovebite, very nearly in the shape of a heart, with parts that are very clearly in the shape of Scott’s mouth, if you know how to piece it together. 

“How does it look?” Stiles asks, looking at him out the corner of his eye, voice cracking slightly on the ‘look’.

 _Like my brand_ , Scott doesn’t say. _Like you’re mine._

“Real,” Scott says instead. 

Stiles stares at him straight-on, shocky-eyed and quivering, lips wet and red. Scott gazes at his lips a while, wondering if his look the same, wondering what Stiles’ will look like in a few minutes time. Because the thing he didn’t tell Stiles was that this was a favor that required payment. If he’s going to give some hickeys, he’s going to get some too. He wants to know what Stiles just experienced, he wants to feel it too.

“Okay, do me,” Scott says, surprised by the rough note to his voice. He offers his arm, like a damsel to Dracula.

Stiles exhales through his nose, long and deep, brushes his thumb up the pale green veins on the underside of Scott’s arm. He entwines their fingers as he lifts his arm up and bends down simultaneously. He moans, soft and low when he mouth-tugs Scott’s skin in. His tongue is so, so wet as he glides it against Scott’s forearm and when he begins to suck, Scott loses some of his higher-brain function. 

It’s not the same as when he gets his hands on himself, it doesn’t make the pressure build up to the same degree, deep down. But his nerves are zinging anyway and all he can think about is how he’ll have to wear long sleeves all this week or people are going to know exactly why Stiles has his own hickey, will know what they’ve been doing together at 9 at night. Scott can’t help but think about what it would be like to get Stiles’ sucking action on other, even more vulnerable parts of his body. He’s so turned on he’s _aching_. Stiles’ thumb keeps stroking, soft and tender, against his vein as he sucks at Scott and it tickles and it hurts and he hates it and he loves it. Stiles’ lips on Scott’s skin are moist and soft. Scott’s mind flashes pictures of those lips traveling his body, pressing against his own. He widens his legs, gives a small, cut-off grunt. 

By the time Stiles finishes they’re both breathing so loud it’s cacophonous in Scott’s bedroom. They avoid each other’s eyes. Scott’s worried Stiles will see how much he liked that and he figures Stiles is worried he’ll see his embarrassment and perhaps even shame because there are things you do with your best friend, but not this, this is far too intimate. 

“I should – Dad will be home soon,” Stiles says, gesturing vaguely at the door. “Thanks for helping me out.”

It takes a lot of willpower for Scott not to say he could help him out in other ways. 

“Yeah, you too. See you tomorrow.”

*

The next morning, Scott’s waiting for Stiles on the steps like he always does, but unlike usual, he’s practically jumping out of his skin. He’s normally only this nervous when he has a presentation to give or he’s unsure about the conclusions he’s drawn in his English essays. He keeps pressing his index finger into the hickey that’s covered up in green plaid. This morning it was a vivid red-purple, a near perfect oval, all blotchy and imperfect and sweet. It aches a bit when he touches it, and he can’t _stop_ touching it. Part of him wants to roll up his sleeves and show the world, but that would defeat the purpose of this. If Lydia Martin’s going to notice Stiles and think of him as someone who’s available in the future, it’d probably be better if it didn’t look like he was romantically entangled with his forever friend. The truth is, if Scott really did have Stiles like that, he would never let him go. 

He wants to see his mark on Stiles’ skin. He itches with it. Scott waits and waits. Stiles arrives early like he does most days, but there are only three minutes until the bell goes when the Jeep pulls up into the parking lot and Stiles launches himself out of the driving seat. Stiles has his red flannel shirt buttoned right up the top and the sharp, pointy pin-prick sensation of pain Scott feels at that settles low in his abdomen. They have English together first, but there’s no time to chat as they hurry down the hallway to make it on time.

When they’re settled in their seats, Scott doesn’t feel like he can ask Stiles why he’s all covered up and then when he keeps thinking about it, he realizes Stiles is probably waiting for an opportune time to reveal the mark right in front of Lydia. He’ll loudly draw attention to it at lunch or something, make a spin, song and dance of it. Scott’s not very fond of the fact that while his rational brain has worked this out, his nerves are continuing to shoot off weird electrical impulses, ratcheting his pulse and breathing quicker. 

“Partner-up to read act three, scene one and then discuss your reading,” Mrs. McGuire orders. “Think, pair, share, come on. You know the routine by now.”

Scott bridges the gap between him and Stiles, tentatively smiles. Stiles gazes at him for a second like he’s surprised, but then he’s twisting his seat around so they can glance at each other when they’re reading or speaking, but they’re able to talk quietly. 

Stiles puts on a hilarious voice as Polonius and Scott makes his own deeper to read as Claudius. Scott stumbles over a few of the words in the famous ‘to be or not to be’ soliloquy and it’s a lot longer than he thought it was, but he can see why it’s quoted so often. The phrase “the pangs of despised love” especially strikes him.

“Hamlet’s being a major dick in this scene,” Scott murmurs after they finish. “Poor Ophelia.”

“Do you think he’s trying to protect her from his own spiral downwards? He’s been talking to himself, he’s been seeing ghosts, he’s becoming paranoid,” Stiles asks, looking down at his page, tracing the words with his finger and sounding them out. “Maybe he wants to shield her from his insanity?”

“He’s only been acting crazy, remember.”

“I mean, okay, but he hates everyone and everything and he thinks he’s by himself before Ophelia arrives, but he’s still expressing that he wants to end it all. Like, he directly says here that everyone would kill themselves if they weren’t scared of the afterlife,” Stiles counters, raising an eyebrow. 

Scott considers this, tries to muddle through in his mind why the thought of Hamlet being protective in this scene doesn’t gel. Hamlet’s being destructive. He’s being unnecessarily cruel and what he’s saying to Ophelia echoes what he said to himself. He’s blaming her for acts she hasn’t committed.

“True, but keep in mind that Ophelia’s spurning him and I think he’s angry he didn’t tell her to get screwed first. I don’t think this is part of a generalized attack only for show. I think he’s treating Ophelia like she’s going to behave just like he thinks his mom has been.”

“So he’s pretending to be crazy, but he’s also becoming a little bit crazy and he’s directing that at Ophelia?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Scott says, pleased that Stiles is seeing his point of view. 

“Interesting discussion, Scott, Stiles, will you share that with the rest of the class?” Mrs. McGuire asks them. 

Scott almost leaps four feet into the air, not having realized she was behind them. They go through their discussion for the class again, refining points and speaking in a more scholarly fashion, though Stiles tells everyone that Scott said Hamlet was a dick, because he’s always overjoyed when Scott uses, as he terms it, ‘a potty-mouth’. If Stiles only fucking knew how Scott’s internal narrative regularly sounded.

“I actually don’t hate Shakespeare,” Stiles says when they’re wrapping everything up, eyebrows resting high on his forehead. “Dude knew how to write interesting characters.”

Scott grins and nods, watches as Stiles gazes at him, mouth dropping open slightly and focus going intense. 

After class, Stiles takes his arm like he sometimes does when he thinks Scott’s dawdling and unerringly presses into the hickey. Scott swallows thickly, willing his heart to stop attempting to jump out of his rib-cage. In all probability, Stiles doesn’t realize where he’s touching Scott, but that doesn’t stop Scott’s monkey-brain from screeching loudly and insisting it’s a deliberate reminder. He wonders if Stiles would really do that, seek to refresh Scott’s memory every hour that he belongs to _him_. Stiles can be possessive, sometimes worryingly so, and he can be all-consuming and overwhelming in his possession too. 

But of course, he’s also stuck on Lydia, and the hickey was a side-effect not an intention. 

The next lessons pass unremarkably, though Scott’s still contending with a fizzing sensation under his skin. Scott waits and waits and waits all through lunch. He sits on the edge of his seat, both metaphorically and literally, on tenterhooks for the big reveal, but Stiles chatters aimlessly about his favorite aspects of Ancient Egyptian History – which is not a subject either of them are learning in school -- and doesn’t even notice when Lydia walks past. 

In the period after lunch Scott has chemistry again and he sits, confused, wondering if maybe the hickey healed overnight – but then why would Stiles be all covered up? Or if it just looks janky and gross – but it looked amazing last night. He scribbles in the margin of his notebook, only realizes they’re MSs and SMs when he stops to take down some notes from the board. 

“Are you okay?” Erica whispers when Mr. Harris isn’t faced in their direction. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Scott replies.

“That is the least convincing ‘fine’ I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s just uh… it’s a thing. A me thing. Hard to explain.”

“All right,” Erica says, frowning at him.

Scott sometimes wishes he had close friends who aren’t Stiles, especially when he has issues _with_ Stiles – which does occur, but is rare – but he doesn’t feel like he can start now, with this, something that is so deeply personal it has its own compartment in his mind. He’d love to have someone to confess to, to be able to let loose all the random thoughts he has about how he feels about Stiles, all the contradictory emotions that well up when his defences are weakened or something’s sparked within him. He wonders if he’d sound as pathetic as he sometimes feels, once he finally said it all out loud. If he were to tell someone that sometimes Stiles makes him feel so much bigger than he is, like an inflatable version of himself, would they laugh at him? If he talked about what it’s like when he and Stiles work toward an understanding, even if they’ve initially been standing at polar opposites of an argument, would it sound like he was describing most conversations, or is this special? If Scott revealed how often he’s thought of Stiles when they’re not within each other’s orbit, but also how often he’s thought of him when they are, would his imaginary confidant tell him he’s got a problem, or would they say he has a solution? 

By the end of the day, Scott sees that Stiles hasn’t unbuttoned his shirt once. He knows this despite not having been with him every hour because there would absolutely be whispered conversations behind hands and eyes watching Stiles’ every move, but he remains largely invisible, like normal. On the steps outside, Scott thinks, perhaps this is the moment. But no, Stiles has rolled his sleeves up, but his top button remains fastened tight. 

“Come to my place,” Scott suggests. It sounds more like an order.

“Still wanna study?” Stiles asks, with the tone of voice he uses when he thinks something’s a waste of time. 

Scott decides to be as non-committal as possible. “Sure. I’m gonna ride. I’ll see you in fifteen.”

It’s rage, bubbling up under the surface. It’s rage combined with perplexity distilled into unkempt energy. Scott cycles as fast as his legs and lungs will allow him. He arrives at his house in record time, kicks off his shoes, strips off his green shirt, paces back and forth a few times before pouring a couple glasses of water. Scott doesn’t do well with confrontation. It always makes him shrink in on himself. But if he doesn’t say something, if he doesn’t _find out_ , he won’t be able to rest. 

Scott opens the door for Stiles as soon as he hears the Jeep pulling up. Stiles notices how he’s hovering by the door but doesn’t remark on it. He follows Scott to the couch and sits at one end, further away than any other day. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt and Scott knows he knows what they’re there for. 

“What gives?” Scott asks, tone neutral because he’s putting all his effort into keeping it that way. 

Stiles stares at the ground. “It didn’t seem right, to flaunt it. It’s just for us.”

Not between us, not a secret to be held, but _for_ them. Scott’s pulse rockets into a rollicking thump-thump and his knees go liquid.

“That wasn’t the plan,” Scott says lightly, softly, questioningly.

“No, but I realized about half a second in that the plan was stupid, so --,” Stiles sighs, rolls his shoulder. He continues talking to the carpet. “Maybe I’m imagining things, but it kinda seemed like we both… reacted to the whole thing.” Stiles waves his hand, glides the back of his fingers where his hickey must be. “And when I got home and I saw it, I saw your mark on me, I knew I couldn’t pass it off as something else.”

“You like that it was _me_?” Scott asks, needing to be sure.

“Yeah, Scotty.”

Scott shuffles forward, places his index finger under Stiles’ chin, tilts his head up. Stiles looks up at him, his eyes red-rimmed like he’s been crying or he’s about to. He looks scared, like he thinks Scott’s about to reject him, give him the ‘it was the hormones’ talk, but that couldn’t be the furthest thing from Scott’s mind.

“Me too,” Scott says. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. I keep pressing into the mark you left me as a reminder, a memento. You’re not wrong about how I reacted to your lips on me. It’s something I’ve thought about a million times.”

“No, you like girls,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

“So do you. It doesn’t stop me from liking you too. You should know that if you… if you like me.”

Stiles’ gaze switches from Scott’s eyes to his lips and back again. He’s flushed a pretty pink once more and his eyes look like liquid gold. His fingers are tapping against his thigh, spider-quick. Scott swallows once, twice, is doing his best to put on a brave face because he’s worried that if he seems at all unsure Stiles will think he’s joking, will think this is some kind of elaborate prank, because when Stiles doesn’t think about things he’s this confident loud-mouth who owns every space he enters and is assertive in his opinions, and when he does think about things he’s one of the most insecure people Scott knows. 

Rather than repeat some version of ‘I like _like_ you,’ Scott eases closer still. He unbuttons Stiles’ top button, and the next. He pulls his collar down and gazes at the hickey; his lovebite, his seal, his label to the world that Stiles is his. It really is beautiful, a perfect bruise. Scott kisses it, tenderly, more than once. Stiles’ hand clenches against his thigh and he chokes out a small sob. Scott trails kisses up his neck, along his jaw. He carefully places his hand on the other side of his head, pauses holding him, taking it all in – the blush and the pink, pink lips and the want in Stiles’ eyes. 

Stiles bridges the gap between them, ducking forward and pressing their lips together. The kiss is tentative and sweet and as first kisses go, Scott thinks he couldn’t be luckier. His whole body seems to melt into Stiles’, becomes soft and malleable, something Stiles could shape into any image of his choosing. But Stiles seems intent on worshiping Scott as he is, dragging one hand up to cradle the back of his neck, tangle his fingers in his waves. With his other hand, he finds Scott’s arm, slides his fingers up to where his hickey is, taps and rubs against it. Scott hums into their kiss, his whole body becoming lightweight and bright. This is everything he’s ever wanted and he almost can’t believe he’s getting to have it. They kiss for a long time, until Scott’s lips feel swollen and even Stiles’ peach-fuzz of a beginning beard has rubbed an abrasion against his skin. He draws back, gazes at Stiles, feels kiss-drunk and lax. He rests his head on the back of the couch, sideways, still curved towards Stiles like they’re parentheses. 

“Believe me yet?” Scott asks, half-teasing, half-not. 

“Oh my God,” Stiles replies, widening his eyes further. He scratches his fingers against his buzzcut, smooths that hand down his face. “I believe I’m the luckiest person _ever_. You’re incredible, you know that?” He smiles, soft-lipped and fond. “You’re made of happiness, sunshine, and all good things. We’re doing this all the time from now on, aren’t we? Please tell me this isn’t a one-time deal?”

“What about Lydia?” Scott asks, mentally kicking himself a hundred times as he does so.

“She doesn’t even know I exist,” Stiles says, quietly. “And I like her, how could I not? But I – I _care_ for you.”

“I care for you too,” Scott says. 

He thinks soon he could call it love. He could press himself against Stiles from toe to tip, and tell him he doesn’t know what he’d do without him, that when they’re not together he feels wrong. Not incomplete, but mismatched. Scott leans in again, strokes his fingers against his hickey on Stiles’ skin, the little lovemark that’s going to fade in a week or two. 

“Can I give you another one?” Scott asks, voice sounding loud in the quiet of the room. 

Stiles offers up his arm like a hand reaching for someone lost at sea. He later attacks Scott’s neck with deep, sucking kisses and small, ticklish bites. 

The next day at school they both wear their collars undone and have their sleeves rolled up. They hold hands to and from class and tangle their legs up at the cafeteria. Scott’s blood feels like it’s going syrupy slow, there’s pressure low in his gut whenever someone new whispers about them, and his skin goes hot when he keeps thinking about the possibilities of what he and Stiles could do together when they're alone. He loves every second of it. This is the thing they don’t teach you at school – that sometimes the hormones coursing through your body just feel good.


End file.
